


Green Eggs

by EledoneCirrhosa



Category: Dragonriders of Pern - Anne McCaffrey
Genre: 8th Interval, Fertile green dragon, Hatchlings, Impression (Dragonriders of Pern), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-09-19 04:30:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20325124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EledoneCirrhosa/pseuds/EledoneCirrhosa
Summary: Three months after her rising, B’ton’s green Prometh gives him a big surprise.A Providence Weyr tale.





	Green Eggs

2301.10.22 (Eighth Interval)

F’dorn’s weyr was so much better than his own for bathing. B’ton lay back in the steaming water of F’dorn’s bathing pool, luxuriating in the heat. Being a bronzerider, his weyrmate qualified for one of the lower level weyrs which had hot water pipes and a bathing pool all of its own. B’ton himself, a lowly non-fighting greenrider, had one of the higher level weyrs. The views were marvellous and the sun reached his Prometh’s ledge as soon as it rose over the Rim… But…

But it was too high for the water of Providence Crater’s hot springs to reach either naturally or by the system of pipes that the Weyrsmiths had installed early in the construction of the Weyr. Instead B’ton had the choice of going down to the communal bathing facilities on a lower level, or requesting some support staff round up a posse of youngsters to help him carry bucket after bucket of hot water up to his weyr. And if you weren’t hot, sweaty and in need of a bath before you expended all that effort, you certainly would be afterwards…

Fortunately he and F’dorn had been weyrmates since before their dragons had cracked shell, and F’dorn’s exalted status as wingsecond meant a well-appointed weyr, which B’ton had free run of. So whilst his Prometh and F’dorn’s Shytonuth basked in the sun high above, he could bask in the hot water, and F’dorn could bask in… writing up sweeprider reports.

B’ton sighed guiltily. He really ought to get out of the bath and offer moral support to F’dorn. 

_Rider, I feel strange._ His green’s comment interrupted his thoughts. 

_Strange? What do you mean, strange? _ B’ton scrambled out of the water, hastily grabbing for a drying sheet. He could feel Prometh’s puzzlement, and an undercurrent of a need to do something, rather like she was a day or so before rising. But that couldn’t be it. She had been flown by Shytonuth only three months ago - a wild, vigorous flight that he and F’dorn would remember for a long time to come. She would not be ready to rise again for a long, long time.

He would not swap his beloved Prometh for a whole wing of bronzes, but she did have health problems, hence their classification as a non-fighting pair and assignment to Nerat Wing, as bearers of messages and general transport for the Lower Caverns. Poor Prometh and had a delicate constitution and when she was a hatchling she’d had frequent digestive problems, above and beyond the normal indigestion all weyrlings suffer. In fact, during weyrling training Prometh had once chewed firestone and it all got heaved back up in a few seconds – a horrible mess of crushed rock and undigested food, as she somehow got her second stomach and normal stomach mixed up. It was only that one time, but it was enough for them to get relegated to the status of a non-fighting pair. The dragonhealers speculated how perhaps the stomach problems were hereditary. Prometh’s dam had mated with her half-brother, after all. That was never a good idea, in humans or in dragons. 

_Are you ill? Shall I send for the dragonhealers?_ B’ton charged into F’dorn’s sleeping quarters, still dripping water and frantically rubbing with the drying sheet. The bronzerider looked up in surprise. 

“Prometh’s ill or something,” B’ton called by way of explanation. Where had F’dorn put his clothes? Sometimes his weyrmate’s obsessive tidiness drove him to distraction. Oh, there they were – neatly folded on the bed. 

“Ill?” F’dorn carefully capped his inkwell and laid down his pen. 

_I am not ill, _ Prometh announced triumphantly. She was always so proud when she figured something out. _My eggs are coming! _

“Your eggs?” B’ton realised from F’dorn’s expression he had said this out loud. He stopped short his frenzied charge for his clothes at the grin that had broken out on his weyrmate’s face.

“She’s broody again?” F’dorn asked, trying not to laugh.

B’ton sighed. “Must be.” That was another of Prometh’s little foibles. Sometimes a few months after rising, she would get broody and spend several days fussing that her couch was _ ‘Too hard for my eggs’_ or the shore of the lake was _ ‘Just right for my eggs’_ or some such nonsense. It provided F’dorn and many another at the Weyr with endless amusement. 

_My eggs are coming very soon. I must go to the Hatching Grounds! _ Prometh announced with determination. 

_No, Prometh – wait! Come get me first!_ If the scatterbrain was going to poke around the Hatching Grounds, he wanted to be there to act as damage control. Thank Faranth there were no golds with clutches on the sands at the moment. But gold Eliarth was due to clutch soon, and he didn’t want to have to explain to a goldrider or her queen why her carefully raked sands had green dragon footprints all over them. Or a wherry-brained green dragon asleep in the middle of them. 

But his call went unheeded. Instead Prometh gave him a mental image of herself launching from her ledge and gliding towards the entrance to the Hatching Grounds.

“F’dorn, can you and Shytonuth please give me a lift? She’s off to the bloody Hatching Grounds!” B’ton frantically hauled on his trous and grabbed for his shirt. 

F’dorn’s grin had gone. He had a very strange expression on his face. “Shytonuth says…” He turned to B’ton with disbelief registering in his voice. “Shytonuth says that Prometh’s eggs are almost here.”

# # #

Shytonuth set them down on the edge of the black sands. Prometh was in the centre of the cavern, squatting in exactly the crouch a queen adopted when she was laying. _My eggs come! _ she said happily. Her body gave a shudder and suddenly on the sand beneath her was a small brown and green splotched egg.

B’ton sagged back against Shytonuth’s shoulder. An egg! His green had laid an egg! This was impossible. He must have dozed off in the bath and be having some strange dream…

“Sweet Faranth!” F’dorn was gaping at the egg in incredulity.

Prometh circled round to look at her handiwork. _Do you not like my egg? _ she asked plaintively. _I like my egg._

_I… I don’t know, _ said B’ton. He stumbled across the sands towards his green. The hot sands stung his bare feet. _Prometh, greens don’t lay eggs! _

_I am a green. I have laid an egg. _ She sounded smug. 

“I’ve had Shytonuth tell the Weyrleaders and the dragonhealers.” F’dorn joined B’ton as he stared down at the egg. It was very small, but it was undeniably an egg. 

B’ton reached out and touched it. It was soft and leathery, just like an egg should be. “Will it hatch?” He looked at his weyrmate, who shrugged helplessly. 

# # #

By the time the Weyrwoman and Weyrleader had made their way to the Hatching Grounds, Prometh had produced a second egg. Again, this one was very small, but not entirely outside the limits of what was considered normal for a dragon egg. For a dragon egg laid by a gold, B’ton amended. Nothing about this situation was normal.

Prometh was delighted by all the attention. _Lots of people come to see my eggs! _

Indeed they did. Word spread like wildfire, and soon everyone in the Weyr had stuck their noses into the Hatching Grounds to see the bizarre sight. Some gawked for a few minutes and then left. Others stayed for longer, sitting in the hatching stands and speculating wildly about how it had happened, if they were fertile and when the pair of eggs would hatch. Wagers were already being laid. 

“They seem to be normal eggs,” the Dragonhealer Senior reported. He and his assistants had examined the pair of eggs in every way they knew how, short of cutting them open. Prometh had basked in the attention. 

“So they might hatch?” asked Weyrwoman Myrelle.

The Dragonhealer Senior gave a helpless gesture. “Your guess is as good as mine, Weyrwoman. I’ve never heard of anything remotely like this. All I can say is that Shytonuth has fathered a clutch – a _gold_ clutch – before now, so he is a proven sire. Beyond that, all is guesswork.”

“It seems that all we can do is wait,” observed Weyrleader S’tol. He gave B’ton a friendly clap on the shoulder. “Try not to spring any more surprises on us in the meantime, eh greenrider?”

B’ton gave a sickly grin, wishing the ground would open up and swallow him.

“A more immediate problem is Tayima’s Eliarth,” said Weyrwoman Myrelle, with a courteous nod towards the goldrider in question. “She’ll clutch in less than a sevenday – and there are two eggs and a green dragon on the sands!”

Weyrwoman Second Tayima stepped forward to join the conversation. “My Eliarth seems indifferent to it now, but I have no idea how she will react when her own clutch is imminent.”

B’ton gulped. “Prometh wouldn’t… I mean she’s a green – surely she’ll give way to a gold?” The thought of his precious green getting into a fight with a queen was unthinkable. But then this morning he would have said that a green laying eggs was unthinkable too. 

“A green will. A green who is a mother? Who knows.” Myrelle frowned for a moment, a hand tapping against her thigh. “Tayima, please ask Eliarth to come to the Hatching Grounds. Greenrider, be prepared to control your dragon.”

_Eliarth comes, _ Prometh informed him, with a slight tone of doubt creeping into her mind voice. _She comes to see my eggs. _

_Be calm, Prometh! _ B’ton urged. _Eliarth is a gold. _

_Of course Eliarth is gold. _ Prometh sounded puzzled at his warning. 

Gold wings briefly blocked the light from the tunnel that led to the Hatching Grounds, and the imposing bulk of Eliarth settled onto the sands. His Prometh looked so small beside her. B’ton bit his lip with worry, resisting the urge to step between the gold and his green.

Eliarth advanced on the green and the two eggs. Prometh shuffled backwards a little. Her eyes began to whirl violet with anxiety. B’ton could feel her distress. _I do not think that Eliarth likes my eggs! _

_It’s all right, Prometh. It will be all right. Just stay calm. _

Prometh hissed and her wings partly unfurled – and Eliarth’s eyes blazed orange with anger. The green gave a shriek and leapt backwards, hurtling to the far side of the cavern, causing people in the stands to flinch back in panic. There she cowered. _Eliarth is senior to me! Eliarth is gold! _

The queen dragon stretched out her neck to sniff at the eggs, then tilted her head this way and that to examine them. After a few minutes she seemed to lose interest and walked to where her rider stood. The gold dipped her head to accept a rub on the eyeridge from Tayima, then departed as abruptly as she had arrived. 

_Eliarth says these sands are hers. I can stay until she returns. Then I must leave._ With the departure of the queen, Prometh was calming down. B’ton ran to her side. 

Surely this could not be real? Surely he would wake up soon?

# # #

“So,” said Dragonhealer Senior Wilden. “Was there anything unusual about Prometh’s last rising?”

They were in the Council Room with the Weyrwoman and Weyrleader, that being a setting that offered some privacy for a discussion of the morning’s bizarre happenings. B’ton would rather be with his dragon on the Hatching Grounds, but as F’dorn had irritably remarked, at the moment the Grounds bore too much resemblance to a drunken gather. People were still coming and going to see the eggs, and word had apparently spread beyond the Weyr, as they’d had three watchriders bring harpers and holders to gawk.

“Um…” B’ton felt himself blush at the question. The flight had been a wild one. Long too, now that he reflected on it. He glanced at F’dorn, who nodded to indicate he should answer first. “Well, she blooded. She doesn’t usually do that. And it was a long flight…”

His weyrmate chipped in as B’ton faltered. “Yes, very long. She gave Shytonuth a real run for his marks.”

“She doesn’t usually blood?” said Weyrwomen Myrelle. 

The greenrider shook his head. “This is the only time in all her risings, Weyrwoman.”

“Significant?” Myrelle asked the Dragonhealer Senior.

He made a wry face. “Possibly. But unless we have a repeat occurrence, it will be impossible to say. Prometh is not the first green to blood her kill, but she is certainly the first to lay eggs!” 

S’tol frowned. “What about firestone? Isn’t it firestone that makes greens infertile? Prometh isn’t a fighting dragon. We could try firestone and see what happens, hmm?” he suggested . “Transfer Prometh to Ruatha Wing to re-train as a fighter.”

B’ton tried to keep his expression neutral. Being a part of Ruatha Wing had a lot of status attached to it. But he _liked_ being part of Nerat Wing, ferrying harpers and healers and the Lower Caverns folk about. Much better fun than endless rope drills and formation flying.

“But surely if lack of firestone is to blame, then we would have had greens laying for centuries?” protested Myrelle. “It’s not as if the non-fighting wings are _new._”

“I think our Weyrwoman is correct,” said the Dragonhealer Senior. “Non-fighting greens are not new, but egg-laying greens most certainly are. I think the best plan is just to wait and see if it happens again.”

# # #

2301.10.24

Two days later, Prometh fled the Hatching Grounds a scant handful of time before gold Eliarth arrived to lay her clutch. The green sat on her ledge, keening softly for most of the rest of the day, oblivious to B’ton, F’dorn and Shytonuth’s efforts to console her. _The sands are Eliarth’s! My eggs are Eliarth’s!_

F’dorn, bless him, ferried food and news to and from B’ton’s weyr, allowing him to stay with his distressed green. The dragonhealers had, according to his weyrmate, marked each of Prometh’s eggs with a cross of red dye, so that they could be distinguished from Eliarth’s eggs if they got mixed up together. He did not say the words, but B’ton understood the unsaid intent – so that they could tell if Prometh’s eggs developed normally or failed to hatch. Eliarth, F’dorn reported, was fussing over her own eggs but totally ignoring Prometh’s pair.

On the second day, Eliarth had finished laying her clutch and Prometh was fretting less. By the fourth day Eliarth was tending Prometh’s eggs as diligently as she tended her own, and Prometh had forgotten any of the clutch belonged to her. B’ton thanked Faranth and all the ancestors of dragonkind for the shortness of dragon memory. 

He still had to endure a great deal of teasing from wingmates and endless mealtime speculation as to whether the eggs would hatch, but he could tolerate that so long as Prometh was hale and hearty. The laying of eggs had given his green a ravenous appetite – she went hunting three times in a sevenday – but aside from hunger the dragonhealers could find nothing amiss. Life settled slowly back into its normal rhythms.

# # # 

2301.12.02

The Weyr was abuzz – today was the day Eliarth’s eggs would hatch. B’ton was all in a fluster. He tried without success to tell himself that he should not be. That it didn’t matter if Prometh’s eggs hatched or not. That the chances of those eggs being anything other than a freakish anomaly was infinitesimal. That Prometh would not be upset if her eggs lay abandoned and inert on the sands, so he should not be either.

F’dorn had being trying to protect him from the worst of the gossip and speculation, but he couldn’t help but hear some of it over the past few sevendays. That some candidates didn’t want to stand in case they impressed a deformed hatchling from one of Prometh’s eggs. That the eggs should be destroyed in case they gave rise to a breed of flameless dragons. That the eggs would hatch out sickly hatchlings who would not live long…

When the dragons started humming, B’ton was still not sure if he wanted to go to the Hatching. F’dorn dragged him from his weyr and practically threw him onto Shytonuth’s neck. “Disaster or celebration, you will always regret it if you do not witness it for yourself!” his weyrmate admonished sternly. B’ton meekly complied.

The pair now sat in the stands, surrounded by B’ton’s wingmates from Nerat Wing. From this angle he could see one egg with a faded red cross on it. Prometh’s other egg was indistinguishable from the smaller eggs in Eliarth’s clutch. B’ton fixed his attention on that egg as the candidates marched out onto the hot, black sands. Was it moving? He couldn’t be sure. Two of Eliarth’s eggs were rocking noticeably, but the others seemed motionless.

F’dorn rested a reassuring arm around his shoulders. B’ton leaned into his weyrmate, grateful for the physical contact. He reached for Prometh and found her excited by the prospect of a hatching, but oblivious that any of the eggs were hers. _They hatch! They hatch soon! _

“Look!” F’dorn pointed to the red-crossed egg. “It’s rocking!”

“It is! It is!” The egg was shuddering and shaking, cracks beginning to appear on its surface. 

There was a collective sigh as the first egg of Eliarth’s clutch hatched, but B’ton couldn’t tear his eyes away from Prometh’s egg. He willed the hatchling inside to hatch out, to be hale and hearty, to find a lifemate who would love him or her the way he loved his Prometh.

F’dorn murmured the names of the first boy and first girl to impress, but B’ton barely heard him. A piece of shell spalled off the egg – his egg – taking the red cross with it. The egg rocked and juddered violently – and a small green hatchling fell out onto the sands. 

She stood up on wobbly legs and looked around for a moment or two as if in surprise, then tottered determinedly in the direction of the candidates. She looked, as far as B’ton could see, a perfectly normal hatchling. Ungainly and ugly, yes. But all hatchlings were that way at first. She certainly didn’t look deformed or monstrous.

B’ton grabbed F’dorn’s hand, almost crushing it in his desperation for the green to find a lifemate. “Come on, little one, come on!”

The green stopped in front of a short, plump girl. The candidate fell to her knees on the sands, cradling the hatchling’s head in her arms. “She says her name is Darachanth!”

# # #

“A green and a blue,” said the Dragonhealer Senior. “Both perfectly normal in all regards. I’ll keep my eye on them, of course, but they have normal proportions, normal heart and lung action, and—“ He gave a wry smile. “Normal appetites.”

B’ton thanked him effusively, but the Dragonhealer waved off his thanks.

“I had nothing to do with it, greenrider. Your Prometh produced the eggs. It seems Providence Weyr has Pern’s first recorded fertile green.”

“They’ll be writing ballads about you and Prometh by sundown,” teased F’dorn. B’ton blushed at the thought.

“Will she do it again?” B’ton asked the Dragonhealer anxiously. What would happen next time Prometh rose? Were eggs about to become a regular part of his life? 

“To be honest, I have no idea.” The Dragonhealer Senior gazed up to where Prometh and Shytonuth were sunning themselves on the former’s ledge. “I would like to keep a close watch on Prometh and her sisters over the next Turn or so.”

“Her sisters?”

The Dragonhealer Senior, cocked his head. “Of course. Now that we know that Prometh lays eggs, it will be interesting to see what those two clutchmates of hers might turn out to do. And in a few Turns we’ll see if her daughter has inherited the same ability to lay.”

“Are you saying…?” B’ton tried to grasp the implications. 

“Yes, greenrider.” The Dragonhealer gave an enigmatic smile and turned to head back to the Hatching Feast. “This may only be the start!”

**Author's Note:**

> Back in 2013, I and several other fanfic writers originally planned to make Providence Weyr a shared-universe writing group. Various stories - including this one - were to set up events during the Eighth Interval. This world-building was to get the Weyr the way we wanted (female riders on blue, green and brown; greens which laid eggs) for an inevitable culture clash when Providence Weyr rejoined mainstream Pernese society in the Ninth Pass.


End file.
